


Arrangements for Arya

by oneletterdiff



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Epistolary, F/M, Gen, Multi, POV Third Person Limited, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:23:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1611635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneletterdiff/pseuds/oneletterdiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short stories, each about a potential arranged match for Arya (all AU in different ways). Tags to be updated with story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Kracken - Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned Stark and Balon Greyjoy exchange letters of politics in which Balon wants his son back, Ned doesn't trust him enough, and they find a new solution.
> 
> Written in the epistolary style.

Lord Stark,

Your last letter found me well and I am much pleased to hear that Theon’s health continues to be resilient. If only the same could be said for his father! I am not a young man anymore. The years since we fought and Theon became your ward, I have aged considerably. My girl Asha speaks often of my grey hair, and of her older brother. It has been years since she saw him, and if you can imagine what either of your girls would feel like if they were separate from any of your sons, then you will know what Asha is going through. Or perhaps you can even imagine what it would feel like if you yourself were unable to see your boy Robb for years on end. Please ask Theon to say a prayer for his father’s constitution, and continue in good health yourself.

Signed,

Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands

 

* * *

Lord Greyjoy,

It grieves me to hear of your poor health, though I admit that I cannot express much regret over your aging. In fact, it gladdens me to think that you have grown more wise in the years since your rebellion. As a father myself, I know how dreadful it is to be separated from your child and must condemn for war for its way of pulling family members apart from one another.

Theon has been flourishing here in the later summer and his archery skills improve with each passing day, though Robb can still best him in swordplay. I daresay the two of them cut fine sparring partners for each other, and I foresee a mutually beneficial future springing from their training arrangement. Theon sends his regards to his sister.

Signed,

Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North

 

* * *

 

Lord Stark,

Give me my son back.

Signed,

Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands

 

* * *

 

Lord Greyjoy,

No.

Signed,

Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North

 

* * *

 

Lord Stark,

Why not? Don’t you care that I might be dying, and want to see my only remaining son before that happens?

Signed,

Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands

 

* * *

 

Lord Greyjoy,

Quite frankly, I don’t trust you not to rebel again.

Signed,

Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North

 

* * *

 

Lord Stark,

I sense that there may have been some misunderstandings between us, and perhaps I might be able to suggest another solution. As my only surviving son, Theon is expected to supply a whole line of Greyjoys to inherit the Seastone Chair after my death. If you will not allow my son back to Pyke before that happens, then perhaps you will allow him to start breeding his own Greyjoy family. In the hopes of continuing to strength the relationship between the Iron Islands and the North, might I even be so bold as to suggest one of your daughters to be his bride?

Signed,

Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands

 

* * *

 

_From the Personal Diary of Lady Catelyn Stark:_

Sometimes I forget how fast we force our daughters to grow up. Wasn’t I only twelve when Father betrothed me to Brandon? So it certainly shouldn’t have come as a shock when Ned began to talk of marrying off our girls—to none other than that kraken’s whelp Theon Greyjoy! He tells me that he’s been exchanging letters with the Lord of the Iron Islands on this matter in the hopes of resolving some of the animosity between him and us, but all I could think of was sending one of children to live in Pyke. “Sansa could not possibly survive the Ironborn,” I told him, and he agreed. He agreed! I was heartened until I heard his next words. “But Arya could, couldn’t she?” he realized aloud, and I wanted to scream and wail and tear my hair out at the prospect of losing my baby girl to the Greyjoys. “She might even thrive in Pyke, for I have heard the Ironborn tend to afford their women more freedom then we are wont to do,” said my dear, foolish Ned, and though I could see his point, I didn’t wanted to agree. But I had to, for that is how the game is played.

 

* * *

 

_Jon’s Journal:_

I had always hoped that Father would be one to put family before politics; he did, after all, bring me back to Winterfell to be raised amongst his true-born children. But he disappointed me by holding a feast in honor of Arya’s new betrothal. That’s right: Father has betrothed my dearest little sister to that smug snake Theon Greyjoy. I couldn’t believe it! And the look of betrayal and sadness in Arya’s eyes at his announcement…

The only pleasure to be derived from the whole sad affair was the fury on Robb’s face. I have never seen him so displeased with Greyjoy—and rightfully so! And so, after all of the feasting and merriment was to be had, he and I cornered Theon in one of Winterfell’s darker alcoves and really lay it on him. ’Twas sweet, though somewhat barbaric, to have some brotherly bonding with Robb by thrashing Theon Greyjoy, because how dare he ask Father’s permission for Arya’s hand! (And how dare Father grant it!) Strangely enough, though, Theon seemed sincere enough in expressing his own bewilderment at the betrothal, as he claims that he had no prior knowledge of it. He cried something about Arya being Robb’s baby sister and he would never think of her that way, never! But if he is to be her husband, then he damn well better be a good one, or else he’ll have a horde of angry Starks (and me) on his tail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had initially planned to make each letter serious, but then I got to the third one and was like "nope." Hope you don't mind the humor.


	2. The Kracken - Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Approximately ten years after Part One.

Dearest Brother,

Let it never be said that Arya Stark wasn’t a real wolf, for Winterfell is, and always will be, my true home. But it must also be said that perhaps this wolf was born with gills, because I cannot deny how I have grown to appreciate Pyke. I will admit that I have developed a certain affection for the Ironborn and their willingness to hand their daughters a throwing axe. Sansa would be scandalized! (Which, I suppose, is the reason Father gave me to Theon rather than her. Does she continue to do well in High Garden? I imagine she must. She has always loved to surround herself with flowers and perfumes and other pretty things.)

On the subject of sisters, you must really bring Rickon here sometime, for he and Asha would be sure to get a real kick out of one another. Or maybe, you could come to visit me, just because, and be sure to bring your wife, so we can swap embarrassing stories about you. It’s been so long since I’ve seen any of you that I worry I’m forgetting your faces. Only I can’t—not truly, because Theon and I both agree that our sons have too much of the wolf blood in them. All I have to do is look down, and I can see Jon’s eyes, Bran’s nose, Robb’s hair. (And speaking of Theon, he misses his Stark foster-brothers. He would never say as much, naturally, but I can see it in his face when he looks at our boys.) So you must be sure to visit us soon!

Does it shock you, I wonder, to know that Theon and I aren’t constantly at each other’s throats? Sometimes, when I look back the first few years of engagement, and even the beginning of our marriage, I myself am surprised at the lack of anger an bitterness between us. It’s because we both love to be wild and to be free that we can make such good partners. I’ll never love him and he’ll never love me, but we love our children and we make do.

So for all my wailing and screaming at Father when he betrothed me to Theon, I must admit that I find myself happier in Pyke than I would have in most other lord’s castles, so thank the Old Gods for the small victories.

Affectionately Yours,

Lady Arya Greyjoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to pick which brother Arya is writing to (between Robb, Jon, and Bran), but I was personally picturing her writing to Bran when I wrote it.


	3. The Crannogman - Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned realizes that Arya would miserable in the south. Then he remembers an old friend who has a son.
> 
> Told from Ned's POV.

“Mace Tyrell has written to me, proposing a match between Sansa and his youngest son,” Ned tells Catelyn, who sighs.

“How many sons does the Lord of Highgarden have again?” asks Catelyn in a weary voice.

Ned laughs at her tone. “Three,” he says. “No more than we do. The youngest is Loras, a lad of eighteen who I’ve heard is uncommonly handsome and apparently a talented enough jouster to have won the moniker ‘Knight of Flowers.’”

“That will be enough to make Sansa happy, I suppose,” Catelyn says and exchanges a knowing smile with her husband.

“I suppose she would do well enough in the Reach,” says Ned. 

“I suppose so,” agrees Catelyn.

The Lord and Lady of Winterfell look at each other, each considering the pros and cons of such a match. “It wouldn’t be a bad thing to have another ally in the south,” Catelyn says.

Ned nods thoughtfully. “And Sansa would be the one for that. For the south, I mean.”

Catelyn laughs. “Can you imagine Arya married to some Southron lord?” she asks playfully. “Locked away in some Southron castle?”

Ned laughs too. Then he realizes that no, he absolutely cannot imagine Arya living happily in the south.

Catelyn must realize this at the same time, for she whispers, “By the Seven, Ned, Arya would be miserable in the south,” in a horrified voice.

 

* * *

Ned spends the next few weeks racking his brain for a Northern lord with a son near enough Arya’s age for it to be a suitable match. He knows that Medger Cerwyn has a son just about Sansa’s age. Ned remembers his name to be Cley, remembers him practicing archery with Bran some number of years ago, and remembers him a friendly and good-hearted boy.

He almost writes to Medger that day, to propose a match between Arya and Cley, but something stays his hand.

There is something about Cley Cerwyn that makes Ned wonder if he wouldn’t understand Arya’s fire, if he wouldn’t mistakenly try to squash her spirit in a misguided attempt to get her to conform to his idea of a wife. 

Then he remembers Howland Reed, and didn’t he have a son too? Ned knows the crannogmen, and he knows that Arya would happy in the Neck; they’d cherish her wildness and let her stay free.

Ned exchanges letters with his old friend and learns that Howland’s boy is named Jojen and that he is three years Arya’s elder. _Jojen is a grave lad and often seems older than his thirteen years,_ Howland writes. _But he is kind to those he cares for and can recognize worth in a free-spirited girl._

And that’s when Ned knows: Arya will be betrothed to no one other but Jojen Reed.

 

* * *

Arya shouts and weeps when he tells her the news. “I don’t want to get married!” she sobs. “I don’t want to leave Winterfell!”

“You won’t be going far,” says Ned gently. “Greywater Watch is but three days right from here.”

“And besides, you won’t be wed for a few more years yet,” Catelyn is quick to add.

Still, Arya scowls and sulks. “It isn’t fair,” she says. “Robb and Jon and Bran and Rickon don’t have to get married and go away.”

“Robb, Bran, and Rickon are boys,” says Catelyn. “You and Sansa are young ladies.”

“You’d like the Neck, I think,” Ned says mildly. “They arm everyone with spears, wives and daughters included.”

Arya stares at him with wonder then. “Truly?” she asks.

Ned nods. “Truly,” he says. “Did you really think that I’d send you off to have your wolf-blood drained and your spirit crushed?”

 

* * *

A year later, Howland rides to Winterfell with his two children. Ned is glad that Howland brought Meera with him; he hopes that the wild and fierce girl might help to convince Arya that she wouldn’t hate marrying into House Reed.

Meera is 17 years old and she lets Arya touch her spear. “Soon you’ll be calling me ‘sister,’” she tells Arya, guiding the younger girl’s hands over the worn wood.

“I… think I’d like that,” says Arya quietly, and Ned looks quick to see Sansa’s face darken. His daughters had never gotten along like he hoped they would have, but sees now that Arya has a chance for sisterhood with Meera, and maybe, just maybe if does marry Sansa to Loras Tyrell, she could find a friend in his sister too.

Then Arya sees Jojen.

The 14-year-old boy is wiry and grave, and his brown bangs fall across startling green eyes. He dismounts from his pony with grace and careful timing; his movements suggest a childhood of moving and roaming and traveling, and he too has a spear strapped to his back.

Arya scowls and becomes sullen, turning away from Meera and her glorious spear to scuff her toe in the dirt.

Ned watches with bated breath as Jojen studies his young bride-to-be. _Will he see only her stubbornness, her childishness?_ Ned worries. _Will he beg Howland to reconsider this match?_ He hopes not, for he’s afraid that this slender crannogman (crannogboy, really) may be Arya’s only chance for happiness in marriage.

“You’re scowling,” Jojen notes in an amused tone. “At me, aren’t you?”

His words only deepen Arya’s scowl. “Just because we’re stupidly betrothed doesn’t mean I have to like you,” she grumbles, raising her gaze to meet the older boy’s eyes.

Ned coughs and tries to convey his apologies to Howland via concerned glance. Catelyn and Sansa have matching expressions of shock and embarrassment, and the boys are exchanging almost gleeful looks, wondering what’s going to happen next.

And then Jojen laughs.

“You’ve got spirit, little wolf,” he tells Arya, and Ned is shocked by the warmth in his voice.

“You’ve got a stupid face,” retorts Arya, though Ned notes the faint blush on her cheeks. “Lizard-lion boy.”

Meera laughs loudly. “I like her,” she declares, sending her brother a knowing look.

Jojen’s meets his sister’s gaze with a half-smile, and Ned hopes he’s not mistaken when he reads, _Me too,_ in his green eyes.

 

* * *

When Arya is fourteen, Ned allows her to visit the Neck for a few days. “If I’m to the spend the rest of my life there, I must know what it’s like,” reasons Arya, and Ned is proud of her for intellect and her eventual acceptance of her marriage.

Ned also allows Bran to join her, when he asks permission. He knows that his son has grown attached to the Reed children over the past few years; Jojen might be Bran’s closest friend at this point, and unless he’s mistaken, his young son has taken a strong liking to Meera.

As Ned watches the two of them ride for Greywater Watch, he wonders how many more times he will watch his children leave Winterfell. He’s seen Jon take the black and Sansa married to a Dornish prince, and soon Arya will be gone too.

“I wanted to go too,” Rickon whines, tugging on Ned’s cloak.

“But then who would keep your nephew Jon company?” Catelyn asks, and Ned smiles—like he always does whenever he thinks of how Robb named his son after his bastard brother.

Rickon scowls, then smiles too, because he is rather fond of little Jon after all.

But Ned’s thoughts soon return to Arya. He’s relieved that she’s found a sort of friendship with Jojen, but still worries that she won’t be happy as his wife. _It’s too late to second guess this match,_ Ned reminds himself, but still, he worries.

 

* * *

Two years later, Ned watches as the entirety of House Reed crowds into Winterfell’s godswood. The wedding of Greywater Watch’s heir is so momentous an occasion that the whole family, from babe to elder has journeyed three days to attend the ceremony.

Sansa and Trystane have come up from Sunspear (Ned is glad to see a certain affection between the two), and even Jon has taken leave from the Night’s Watch to see his baby sister wed.

“They grow up so fast, don’t they?” Catelyn’s voice is weepy, and Ned’s heart swells with love at the sight of her adjust Arya’s grey maidencloak.

The ceremony is short and sweet, and Ned feels a surge of pride for his youngest daughter as she lets Jojen hang a grey-green cloak around her shoulders.

“Arya Reed,” Sansa later says to her sister, after Jojen has kissed his bride. “It has a nice ring to it.”

Arya smiles but says nothing, and for a moment, Ned is worried that she’s about to do something rash, but his grey-eyed daughter merely turns to Bran and jokingly tells him that he’s basically a brother to Jojen and Meera now. “How does that make you feel?” she asks.

Bran’s flushed cheeks all but confirm Ned’s suspicions of his feelings towards the much older Meera Reed.

 “I’m glad that North doesn’t conform to the southron tradition of bedding,” Catelyn murmurs. “I doubt that Arya would stand for it.”

Ned makes a noise of agreement in the back of his throat, and after the feast, he watches all of House Reed pick up and leave—only this time, Arya rides away with them.


	4. The Crannogman - Part Two

While it will never be Winterfell, Greywater Watch holds its own place in Arya’s heart. She rises early every morning to practice spear-work with Meera—a better sister for her than Sansa ever was, though Sansa has become more tolerable to her since both their weddings.

“I imagine that Dorne came as a bit of a rude awakening to her,” Meera said, when Arya had told  her as much. “They, like us, are prone to handing spears to their women.”

Arya had laughed and had wondered if maybe she should challenge Sansa to a spear duel next time they saw each other.

Meera had laughed with her, and Arya had felt content.

She still feels content, years later, as she watches Howland Reed’s funeral rites from her spot beside Jojen. _Lady Reed,_ she tells herself. _I am a lady now. The Lady of Greywater Watch._  

As if he can read her mind, Jojen discreetly reaches for her fingers and holds her hand tightly for the remainder of the ceremony. Arya has long since stopped feeling surprised at the comfort Jojen’s touch brings her.

Afterwards, when it’s just the two of them, alone in their bedchamber, Arya looks at her husband. She studies his green eyes, and sees a sudden tiredness that wasn’t there the first time she saw them.

Jojen smiles at her curious gaze. “What are looking at?” he asks in an amused voice.

“You,” Arya tells him. “I’m looking at you.”

“And what about me?”

_Nothing_ , Arya doesn’t say. _Everything,_ she doesn’t say.

Instead, she says, “You’ll make a fine Lord of Greywater Watch.”

* * *

 

Rewind to their wedding day. Arya clutches at her grey maidencloak one last time, before Jojen unclasps it to carefully drape her in his own cloak, his own colors. She looks at her parents, and then at all of her siblings, and thinks, _No longer a Stark of Winterfell, but a Reed of Greywater Watch. That is what I must be._ Privately, she believes the task impossible; how is she ever supposed to be anyone but Arya Stark?

There’s a feast—of course there is—but Arya can’t seem to find her appetite. She picks at her food and casts surreptitious eyes at her new family: the Reeds. Lord Howland is reserved, picks his words carefully, gracious to a point of perfection. Lady Jyana is charming and fierce. Meera is spirited but thoughtful; she makes an attempt to reach out to everyone, even surly, young Rickon. And Jojen. Jojen is quiet like his father, and his grave eyes suggest deep thinking. Arya wonders if she’ll ever grow to love him like Mother grew to love Father.

Afterwards, her family sees her off with hugs and kisses and tearful farewells. Arya clings tight to Jon—this may be the last she ever sees him—and presses a fierce kiss to his cheek. “I’ll miss you, little sister,” he whispers, lips hot against her ear, and then she’s stepping away, hugging her father one last time, and mounting her horse.

“We can invite them down for you name day,” Jojen says as they ride out of Winterfell. “I’m sure your lord-father would be willing to let Bran, at least, visit us.”

“Thank you,” Arya whispers back. She stares hard into her new husband’s green eyes and tries her best to silently convey how much this means to her: how glad she is that Jojen won’t try to rip her away from her family.

It will take them another two days to reach Greywater Watch, so they stop an inn at night. “You’re expected to have your bedding on your wedding night,” Jyana tells Arya and Jojen. “But I think we can put it off until we reach home.”

_Home_. The word rings in Arya’s head. _Home isn’t Winterfell anymore,_ she realizes. _It’s Greywater Watch. That must be your home now._

Then she realizes what Jyana has just said and blushes, because oh! She must go to bed with Jojen, mustn’t she? “Isn’t waiting… just… putting off the issue?” she asks Jojen after his mother has walked away. She hates how hesitant her voice is, then wonders if she’s offended Jojen by calling their bedding an “issue.”

Jojen gives her a sympathetic look. “I don’t know about you,” he says. “But I know that I’d rather our bedding be in a comfortable and safe place—not at an inn, but at home.”

“Have… have you ever…?” asks Arya in the same faltering voice.

Jojen startles and flushes at her question. “Oh!” he exclaims in surprise. “I, um… I’ve done a bit of… kissing and… handsy stuff, but no, I haven’t.”

Arya isn’t sure if his answer reassures her or worries, but she doesn’t say so. Instead she says, “Oh,” and, “Thanks for telling me the truth,” and, “I haven’t either.”

“Well, you’re a lady,” says Jojen in an amused voice. He sees Arya’s glare, and laughs. “Okay, maybe not a lady, but a lord’s daughter. I know that this world allows sons more freedom does it does daughters. I… wouldn’t have expected you to have… bedded… anyone.”

Arya scowls. She had just been trying to be as open with Jojen as he had been with her, and she doesn’t appreciate his laughter at her efforts. “I’ll have you know that I’m not utterly inexperienced!” she snaps.

“What? Have you gotten handsy too?” Jojen asks. His tone falls somewhere between mocking and honestly curious, and it frustrates Arya to no end.

 “No!” she hisses furiously. “But I have kissed!”

“Really? Who?” And there is no mistaking the genuine curiosity in Jojen’s voice this time around.  “Was it your father’s ward? No, he’d be too old, wouldn’t he?”

“And too terrible!” retorts Arya. “Theon’s an ass.” The insults slips easily from her lips, and it’s only after that Arya wonders if she shouldn’t use such language around Jojen, but he only seems amused by her choice of words.

He smiles kindly at her. “So who, then? Please tell me it wasn’t one of your brothers.”

Arya gags. “Ew, no,” she protests. “What do you take us for? Targaryans?”

Jojen shrugs. “It’s not unheard of for young children to practice kissing with each other,” he says.

“What, is that that you and Meera did?” teases Arya. “And anyways, those aren’t real kisses.”

“I think you’re just trying to avoid answering my question,” Jojen teases back.

They’ve been walking as they talked, and as they enter the room Howland has rented for them, Arya notes the single bed. She crosses the chamber to sit on it, claiming it as hers for the night, just in case she and Jojen decide that they can’t share a bed until their bedding. “It was the son of one of Winterfell’s guards,” she tells Jojen from her new vantage. “His name was Calon. I was fourteen the first time we kissed. He was… younger.”

“Younger?” Jojen arches an eyebrow at her.

“Bran’s age,” Arya clarifies. “It’s not important. We had grown up playing together—hitting each other with sticks and all that—so we were friends. It was just after Bran and I had visited you. You know, that was the first time I realized what marriage entailed, so I… well, I asked him if I could kiss him. For practice, you know.” Arya laughs at the memory. “It was all very silly.”

Jojen sits down beside her. “It sounds sweet,” he says and gently touches her forearm. “Sweeter than my tale of kissing and… handsiness.”

“Well, it started out sweet,” says Arya. She makes no move to remove Jojen’s hand from her arm but doesn’t give him any acknowledgement of the touch either. “We kept kissing for another year or so. But then our wedding loomed too close and I told Calon that I couldn’t anymore, that he had been a good friend to let me indulge myself but that we were grown-ups now and it wasn’t appropriate for us to be kissing anymore. He got mad, shouted at me for leading him on. He had been so young—too young, really, when we started kissing, that I think he had grown to… hope things he shouldn’t have. It was stupid and foolish of me to think that, as a lord’s daughter, there would be no consequences for kissing a guard’s boy.”

“It isn’t fair, is it?” asks Jojen quietly. “That you and this boy kiss each other for year and it means a ruined friendship and broken heart and much worse if anyone had found it, but I was free to kiss and… more… with a lowborn girl from the Neck, and even if my father had found out, I wouldn’t be condemned for it. Some might even encourage my behavior.”

Arya bites her lip and nods. “No,” she agrees. “It isn’t fair.”

They don’t kiss that night—despite all their talking of it and their earlier wedding kiss—but they do share a bed, sleeping side by and side in silent solidarity.

* * *

 

The next night—their last night on the road—they’re at another inn with another room with another bed. It is no secret to the rest of the crannogmen that their little lordling has not yet consummated his marriage to the she-wolf, though no one comments on it, apart from Jojen’s rowdy Uncle Danver who speaks loudly and with vulgarity enough to send both Arya and Jojen to bed with blushing faces.

Jojen apologizes to Arya for his uncle’s behavior, and Arya asks if he thinks that they should just get their bedding over and done with. “Wouldn’t it just be easier this way?” she asks.

“I hate how earnest you are when say that,” says Jojen. His green eyes are serious. “Arya, I… forgive me if I’m not on the same page as you, but… my parents do love each and I know that your mother and father do too, and I had been hoping that we could, some day, reach that point as well. And I thought… I thought that having a bedding that was gentle and private and… safe… for you… would be a good starting point.”

Surprised by the sincerity of his words, Arya finds her speechless. 

“Forgive me,” Jojen repeats. “I guess it was foolish of me to think that.”

Still unsure of her voice, Arya instead wraps her arms around her husband and buries her face against his chest. “I think I’d like that too,” she whispers into his green tunic.

Jojen hums to himself, then gently kisses the top of her. Arya thinks she can feel his lips smiling against her hair but she isn’t sure, and that night, they sleep with their arms around each other, slowly learning the rhythm of the other’s breath.

* * *

The whole party is exhausted and dirty by the time they reach Greywater Watch. Jyana and Meera immediately draw Arya away from the men in the group. “Now that you are proper Reed lady, we can let you in a little secret,” Jyana tells her, leading her by the arm.

“Us Reed women have found ourselves the perfect place to bathe and talk—away from Father and Jojen and all the others,” adds Meera. “It’s our little sanctuary, and now it’s yours too.”

They move deftly over the swamps, weaving between the crannogs with sure footing, until they come what appears to a wall of vines and other plants. But they don’t stop moving; each with a hand on one of Arya’s arms, Jyana and Meera push through the plants. Emerging on the other side, Arya is surpassed by the sight that greets her. The water here is clear and clean, but the whole area is completely hidden from the rest of the swamp by foliage.

“It’s a hot spring,” Jyana says. “Meera and I like to end our days by bathing here together, and we’d like it if you would join us from now on.”

Arya feels a sudden rush of affection for her good-mother and -sister. “I… I’m honored,” she says, and realizes, for the first time, that she may be able to find a real feeling of family outside of Winterfell.

Jyana and Meera help her over her embarrassment as they strip down and wade into the warm water. Jyana washes Arya’s hair for her, as Meera explains that, in order to become a true crannogwoman, she must have a spear. “Uncle Danver can make you one and I’ll teach you,” she announces eagerly.

“I’d like that very much,” Arya says, almost shyly. “I’m glad that you’re my good-sister, Meera.”

Afterwards, Arya emerges from the hot spring feeling clean and content. Jyana and Meera have dressed in a green dress; it is fancy enough to be befitting of a Reed bride (Jyana’s words, not Arya’s) but practical enough that Arya can move easily it in. And Meera has braided a white water lily into Arya’s dark hair. Jyana gives her a good looking over and proudly announces, “You look beautiful.”

Arya isn’t sure if anyone had ever called her beautiful before.

Then Jyana and Meera lead Arya back to one of the larger crannogs where, the Reeds are hosting their own wedding feast for the residents of Greywater Watch. Jyana tells Arya to wait outside, then enters to take her place beside Howland as Lady Reed. Arya enters the crannog afterwards, arm-in-arm with Meera.

The room falls silent at her entrance. Uncle Danver is the first recover. He breaks the quiet by loudly calling out, “Out little she-wolf looks a proper Reed now, doesn’t she?” and the room quickly relapses into talking as people murmur their agreement. 

Feeling as though she has just passed some unspoken test, Arya scans the room for Jojen. She spies him sitting by his parents at the largest table. There are two open chairs next to him, and Arya knows that they are meant for her and Meera.

“I hope you are ready to eat fish and frog,” Meera whispers to her as they make their away over to their seats.

“Honestly, at this point I’m so hungry I think I’d eat anything,” Arya whispers back. She sits down next to Jojen, and catches him gazing wordlessly at her. “What?” she asks defensively.

Jojen shakes his head, but there’s a smile on his face. “Uncle Danver was right,” he says. “You do look like a proper Reed now.”

Arya playfully bares her teeth at him. “I am still a wolf, just as you named me when first we met,” she teases.

“I wouldn’t dare to forget,” Jojen says, and it sounds like a promise. He smiles, and Arya smiles back.

The feast is delicious, and once Arya gets past the strangeness of all the new flavors of food, she finds that she’s really enjoying herself. She meets a number of Jojen’s extended family, including Danver’s daughter, a pretty young thing named Eonya, whose softness reminds Arya of Sansa but somehow Arya thinks that they’ll get along anyways.

“You should know that my family has spent the last fortnight putting together a crannog for us,” Jojen tells her over the course of the evening. “So we’ll have our own place… to get to know each other, just between the two of us.”

Meera overhears his words and laughs, not unkindly. “Aw, baby brother, are you secretly a romantic?” she asks.

_You shouldn’t tease him for trying to be a decent human being,_ Arya thinks but doesn’t say. She recognizes with grudging acceptance how rare men like Jojen are in this world.

The feast is a lengthy and joyous occasion, but it does finally end. Jojen offers her his arm, and they leave together like that. “Tomorrow,” he tells her, “when it’s light out, I will show you this way again, so you can learn the path between here and our own crannog.”

“Oh, thank the gods!” exclaims Arya. There was wine at the feast, and she has drunken enough to make her tongue looser than usual. “I’m so worried that I’ll get lost among the swamps and never been seen again!”

Jojen laughs and promises her that he and Meera will be very careful to make sure that never happens.

Then they arrive at their crannog. At first glance, it appears to be nothing more than a brown hut, but upon closer examination, even the darkness, Arya can tell that it is very skillfully put together. Still arm-in-arm, they enter their new home.

Jojen lights a candle and hangs it in a lantern. The crannog’s interior bursts into sudden light, and Arya sees a cozy-looking bed in one corner and a couple of chests in another. She also sees that the room has been decorated with all sorts of flowers, before eyes focus in one particular bouquet: there is a wreath of blue winter roses resting atop one of the chests.

“Who…” she begins to ask.

“My father,” Jojen tells her. “He said that he wanted to give you a reminder of Winterfell.”

Arya smiles. “That was very thoughtful of him.”

“My father is a thoughtful man,” says Jojen. “Someday, I hope…”

“You are, Jojen,” Arya says, not caring that she’s interrupting him. “You’ve been nothing but thoughtful of my feelings in all of this, and I’m very grateful to call you my husband.”

Jojen turns to her and smiles softly. “Thank you, Arya. I’m grateful too. Though perhaps unconventional by southron standards, I think I’ll be proud to be able to call you my wife,” he says, and there isn’t even the faintest hint of mockery in his voice.

Arya bites her lip and, feeling unable to continue the conversation, moves slowly around the room, examining the different flowers and running her hands over the wooden chests.

“The one with the winter roses has clothing for you inside of it,” Jojen tells her. “But not your old clothing—clothing that are more practical for the Neck. Why don’t you open it and see?”

So Arya does. Carefully setting aside the blue blossoms, she opens the chest to find a number of carefully folded dresses, tunics, and even britches. She also finds a few pairs of shoes and cloaks and even a pale blue shift. She pulls out the shift before closing the chest, and sets both it and the roses aside for later.

Jojen sees her purposeful gesture and wonders aloud if he too should lay out his bedclothes.

“Don’t tease, Jojen,” Arya says reproachfully. “I’m just trying to… prepare myself.”

“I know,” says Jojen. “And I wasn’t teasing. Honest. I just… was trying to prepare myself alongside you, I guess.”

Arya laughs then. “Look at us!” she exclaims. “Worrying over shifts and bedclothes at our bedding.”

“It’s true that this is no proper place to start from,” agrees Jojen with his own laughter. “Indeed, I think we were better off last night.”

“Oh, come here,” Arya says, grinning and opening her arms.

Jojen steps easily into her embrace and wraps his own arms around her. They stand silently like that for a few breaths, then: “Can… can I kiss you?” Jojen asks in a quiet, uncertain voice.

Arya pulls her head back to look at him. “Mm, let me think about it,” she says playfully. “I guess you can.”

“Now who’s teasing?” Jojen asks in a low murmur, but he reaches up to carefully touch her cheek all the same. It’s a simple gesture, but Arya finds it endearing all the same. Then he slowly leans forward to touch his lips to hers.

It’s a perfunctory kiss, much like their wedding kiss—a quick and chaste touch before Jojen pulls back. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asks.

Instead of responding, Arya goes up on tiptoe to kiss him again. A deeper kiss, similar to some of the later kisses she shared with Calon, and she’s rewarded with Jojen’s arms tightening and pulling her closer to him. “Maybe I should have mentioned that I rather enjoy kissing,” Arya tells him once they’ve separated.

“You really _are_ teasing!” Jojen’s accusation is affectionate, and Arya delights in touching her nose to his and murmuring an agreement.

They kiss a third time, and this time, Jojen lets go and allows himself to truly enjoy the sensation of lips against lips. He licks eagerly across Arya’s lower lip, and as their kiss deepens, the newly-made husband and wife sink onto their bed.

Arya’s fingers curl into Jojen’s dark green tunic, and she finds herself leaning eagerly into each subsequent kiss. She tugs on the tunic and murmurs, “I think I want to get rid of this. Is that okay?”

Jojen makes a noise of assent, trailing his hands down Arya’s back to pull at the laces on her gown. “Can I?” he asks.

“Yes, please.” Arya’s breath is hot and heavy against Jojen’s ear.

In the end, Arya has to help Jojen get her dress off. “Will it always be this bloody difficult to get you naked?” he asks, once they’ve discarded the garment on the floor.

Arya laughs and helps Jojen to slip out of his pants. “We’ll see.”

Their bedding is a careful mess of fumbling fingers and awkwardly placed touches. Arya bumps hers shoulder against Jojen’s afterwards and says, “Well, at least it can only get better from here on out, right?”

“I hope so,” Jojen says with a sigh and turns to kiss Arya’s temple. “I hope so.”

And it does get better. Slowly, they find their rhythm with each other, whether in bed, sparring with their spears, or listening to the complaints of smallfolk in Howland’s court. Arya can look at Jojen and think, _This is my husband._ And they’re happy together; happier than Arya would have imagined the first time she met Jojen Reed and scowled at across Winterfell’s courtyard.


	5. The Kracken - Short Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currently working on the next installment, but in the meantime, here's a cutesy short story pertaining to the first arrangement.

He finds in her the godswood, fourteen years old and angrier than he’s ever seen. She slices through the air with the sword that Jon gave her before he joined the Night’s Watch, the one that she thinks no one else knows about. Theon knows about it, but only because he’s been paying closer attention to her for the past few years.

Watching the savage swish of Arya’s blade reminds Theon of her older brothers. He’s been trained by Ser Rodrik alongside Robb and Jon since he was first taken hostage by Lord Stark, and over the past fourteen years, he’s come to know each step, twist, and breath of the elder two Stark boys. He doesn’t know as much about Arya’s fighting style, but what little he’s seen tells him that she moves in an entirely different way. She might manage to beat him in a sword fight, simply because he wouldn’t know what to expect.

Like now, when Arya whirls suddenly, taking Theon by surprise. Her sword arm drops when she sees him. “What are you doing here?” she demands angrily.

_Looking for you,_ Theon doesn’t say. _Watching you fight the air and wondering what’s gotten you so upset this time. Realizing that you’ve grown up into a fine creature and admiring that fact._ But he can’t say any of those things. So instead he says, “I could ask you the same.”

Arya scowls at him, an expression he’s used to seeing on her face. “Well,” she says with a long-suffering sigh. “Really, I came here to get away from _you_ , but here you are.”

Her answer surprises Theon. While she’s never been his biggest fan, she’s usually not so openly antagonistic towards him. “Why?” he asks without thinking.

“Because you’re stupid and I don’t like your face!” spits Arya. She spins away from him and takes another vicious whack at nothing.

Theon chuckles quietly at her retort and steps deeper in the godswood to take a seat at the foot of a weirwood tree. “Okay, sure,” he says. “But what’s the real reason?”

Arya glares, then puts her sword aside and crosses her arms. She bites her lip, leans against an ironoak. “Father says,” she begins, then pauses uncertainly. “Father says that it’s time to put a date on our wedding.”

“What?” Theon’s mouth feels dry. “Why the sudden push?”

“It’s not sudden at all!” Arya snaps. “The day’s been looming since last year.”

Theon looks at her curiously. “What do you mean? What happened last year?” he asks.

Arya flushes and looks away. “If you must know,” she says, “I flowered last year, so really, I’m surprised that Father hasn’t brought the issue up before now.”

Theon feels himself also blushing at her words. He doesn’t like to think of Arya’s moonblood anymore than he likes to think of their impending marriage, but they’ve been engaged for a few years now so Theon supposes it was only a matter of time until the topic was discussed. He looks intently at Arya and tries to imagine marrying her, tries to imagine her with a black and gold wedding cloak, tries to imagine bedding her, but nope! The thought is too much, and Theon has to look away. _She’s still such a child,_ he reminds himself. _Playing with swords and hiding in the godswood when confronted with something unpleasant._

“ _That’s_ why I was trying to avoid you,” says Arya in a belated finish to her earlier explanation.

Finding a branch amongst the leaves and other debris on the ground, Theon turns back to Arya with a forced smile. “Your form is all weird,” he tells her and nods at her discarded sword. “Find yourself a branch and I’ll spar with you.” It’s the only think he can think of to connect with her over. “You might learn something.”

Surprised, a delighted smile breaks across Arya’s face. “Do you really mean it?” she asks in wonder, and Theon can tell that she’s thinking of Jon; he’s the one who should be here to teach her about swordplay.

“Sure,” he says easily and gets to his feet. He playfully brandishes his branch at Arya and grins. “It’ll be fun.”


	6. The Prince - Part One

Lyanna’s child wasn’t what Rhaegar had hoped for. Jon wasn’t the Visenya he was supposed to be. Rhaegar had gambled, and Rhaegar had lost. He had nearly torn his kingdom apart to take Lyanna Stark as his second wife, and she had given him another son.

_A worthless child_ , he thinks when he sees Jon silently wandering the Red Keep, like a little, lost boy. He looks like a miniature version of his mother, who has also taken to aimless and quiet walks around the castle.

Rhaegar is careful to give Jon the education a prince deserves and he is careful to keep him apart from Elia’s children. _Can’t have a wolf pup spoiling the prince that was promised, the dragon with three heads,_ thinks Rhaegar, then he remembers that his dragon currently only has two heads and that with Elia’s frailty, he desperately needs Lyanna to conceive again.

He knows that it is cruel and perhaps foolish to treat a daughter of one of the eldest houses in the Seven Kingdoms like a breeding mare, but until Lyanna gives him a baby girl, gives him Visenya, breeding is the whole point of her being in King’s Landing. Not that anyone can know that. No, according to what the rest of Court and the kingdom knows, Lyanna is his beautiful but reserved second queen.

No one can know that the Red Keep has turned her in a veritable ghost. The Starks especially can’t know, for though they should be grateful that Rhaegar allowed Lord Eddard to keep his head after joining Robert Baratheon in rebellion, they bare him no love. If they had the slightest idea that Lyanna wasn’t as happy as everyone thought, the honorable Ned Stark would like as not come riding down to King’s Landing, roaring for Rhaegar to come out and die, like his brother had once done before him.

On a summer evening, a thought forms in Rhaegar’s mind as he lies in bed after bedding Lyanna and listens to sound of her sobbing in the bath. _If Ned Stark can take young Greyjoy as a hostage—oh, excuse me, a ward—in order to keep the Iron Islands from rising in rebellion again, why should I not have the same assurance from the North?_

He puts his head together with Varys the next day. “If I ask for his heir, it might arouse Ned Stark’s suspicions,” he muses aloud. “He has a gaggle of children, or so I’ve been told, but I have to be very careful in choosing which one to bring here.”

“I have just the child in mind,” Varys tells him in a low voice. From somewhere in his voluminous robe, he pulls a paper and slides it across the table.

Rhaegar looks down at a sketch of a young girl, five or six years old at most. Her resemblance to his second wife is striking. “Who is this?” he asks in a dazed voice.

“Lord Stark’s second daughter,” says Varys knowingly. “The resemblance is uncanny, is it not?”

“Brutally so,” Rhaegar admits. “Is that why?”

Varys smiles. “A second daughter or son is a commonly selected hostage, but Lord Stark’s second son is a bit too young to leave home, I think. And besides, what better way to drive home the point that you hold supreme power than by taking Queen Lyanna’s young lookalike?” he asks.

Rhaegar has to admit that such a gesture would certainly make a statement. “But it is too obvious?” he frets.

“Don’t be silly,” says Varys soothingly. “By the Stark’s knowledge, you have no idea what young Arya looks like, and she is simply the natural choice to be… fostered in King’s Landing. You might add that her cousin would enjoy her company and so forth.”

So Rhaegar does. He sends a royal decree to Winterfell, ordering the Starks to send their second daughter to King’s Landing to be Prince Jon’s companion. “This will be good,” he tells Lyanna in a reassuring voice. “Jon’s been lonely, I think.”

“Yes,” says Lyanna woodenly, and Rhaegar doesn’t ask whether she’s responding to his insistence that it will be good or that his statement of Jon’s loneliness. He isn’t sure if he wants to know, not when Lyanna’s luminous grey eyes are so dead looking.

He wonders about that sometimes. Lyanna is so very different from the wild and spirited girl whom he brought to the Tower of Joy, but then again, Rhaegar supposes that himself must seem to Lyanna a different person than the one who she ran away with. _Perhaps, it was unfair of me to lead her to believe that I loved her,_ he has mused more than once. _She was just a child when I crowned my Queen of Love and Beauty, and she’s done more than her fair share of growing up in order to become my queen of different sort._ But he is quick to push the thought from his mind; Lyanna’s journey won’t be complete until she gives him a Visenya to complete the match.

Elia steps in then, smiling soothingly at Lyanna and saying that yes, Prince Jon will love having his cousin for company. “And it’s a huge honor for Lady Arya to be fostered among the royal family,” she says, but the look she shoots Rhaegar tells him that she finds the idea idiotic and needlessly cruel to a family that already hates his guts.

“She’s to arrive next week,” Rhaegar tells his wives. “I’ll have the servants prepare her a room near Jon’s, and it will be good.”

He finds himself repeating that phrase over the course of the next few days. _It will be good. It will be,_ he keeps telling himself, all the way up until the moment Arya Stark arrives in King’s Landing.

She looks so much like Lyanna it hurts, and for a second, Rhaegar hates her for it. Because not only does she strongly resemble his second queen, but she also looks a lot like Jon, like a fiery, female Jon. _You’re the child Lyanna should have borne,_ Rhaegar thinks. _You should have been my Visenya._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so this one is much more AU than the first two. A few of the other arrangements will likewise be wildly AU in different ways. Fair warning.


End file.
